Search History
by Lawson227
Summary: Oliver makes the grave error of messing with Felicity's computer setup. Grave, grave error. Felicity makes the grave error of trying to teach Oliver a lesson. Grave, grave error... Needless to say, hijinks ensue.
1. Chapter 1

**Search History**

* * *

**AN: **Dipping my toes into a new fandom with a wee bit of Oliver/Felicity fluff. This is just something a little light alleviating the dark that ended the season and because I adore their chemistry.

Standard disclaimer- I own nothing of **ARROW**; just playing in the sandbox.

Hopeless. Utterly, freakin' hopeless.

Felicity glared at her computer setup as if the mere action of glaring would somehow magically return it to its formerly pristine condition. Okay, to be fair, pristine by _her_ standards. She was self-aware enough to understand she operated under a different set of standards than the Muggles. She was also reasonably certain that to the naked, untrained eye, nothing would appear out of the ordinary. And she was even more certain that to the Oliver Queen eye, and she wouldn't be thinking the word _naked _in any context with respect to Oliver Queen, because yeah, just… no, thinking that way lay badness, in the not _bad_ bad way, because hello, a body would have to be dead to think _that _was bad, but badness for her own mental and emotional well-being and it was bad enough both were currently being strained to their limits with this nutty double life she led and anyway, none of that mattered worth a damn because, you know, he _was_ Oliver Queen. Or rather, within these walls—The Hood or The Vigilante or Robin Hood or the Jolly Green Giant or whatever the hell else with which the media might see fit to deem him this week.

Honestly, he _did_ need a name. A call sign. An alias. Something cool and catchy—preferably singular. The best heroes or even antiheroes only went by one name.

Jackass might work.

But she digressed—what he really needed was to Leave. Her. Stuff. Alone.

Okay, technically, _his_ stuff, since he'd paid for it all, but it had all been purchased under her careful directive and set up under her careful directive and maintained under her careful directive so that meant it was what? Eighty-nine-point-three percent hers—at least—and possession was nine-tenths of the law and… and… dammit, what it boiled down to was he'd been messing with _her_ stuff_._ How could he expect her to do her work to the best of her considerable ability if he was messing with her _stuff_?

"Felicity?"

She whirled, fixing Diggle with the full force of her glare, for all the good it would do. "Why do you let him mess with my stuff?"

John's eyebrows rose as he stared past her shoulder to the desk. "Okay, first, I don't _let_ him do anything, you know that and second, he was messing with your… stuff?" His eyebrows momentarily rose further before lowering into a straight line as his narrow-eyed gaze took in the setup and clearly, didn't see anything amiss.

Of _course_ he wouldn't. Substantiated by his doubtful, "You're certain of this?"

She snorted and crossed her arms. "Would Oliver know if anyone messed with his bow? Would _you_ know if you someone messed with your sidearm?"

He hit her with a look that clearly said _d'uh _even though big, bad John Diggle had probably never actually articulated the word in his life. Out loud, at least.

No matter. She could tell he was thinking it.

"I'll see your 'd'uh' and raise you a _'my_ bow, _my _sidearm, let me show you it," she snapped with an impatient gesture back at the row of monitors and electronic equipment.

"What'd he do?" he asked, finally accepting that something was wrong, even if he couldn't tell.

"He switched the monitors and the towers have been moved over and that wound up necessitating shifting the secondary laptop which obliterated the space I keep reserved for the tablet and—"

"Whoa—" Diggle threw a hand up, clearly convinced. Or terrified. She couldn't quite tell. "Okay, he messed with your stuff." Releasing a slow breath, as if girding himself for battle, he added, "Can I… help?" with the clear air of a man condemned. It was tempting to say yes, if only to enjoy the momentary flare of panic sure to spark, but truth was, she could get the work done faster on her own.

"No, it's okay," she said, grinning at the barely audible "Thank God," that escaped before Diggle beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to the club where Oliver was putting in his obligatory nightly appearance.

Probably to warn him for all the good that would do. Oliver wasn't scared of her. Although he should be, she thought grimly as she set to work, righting her space. But no… Not him. Not Oliver Queen AKA The Hood AKA The Vigilante AKA _Jackass_. No, he'd probably just roll his eyes and shake his head with the resigned, ever-so-slightly condescending air with which he greeted everything from a request from Thea to borrow one of his limitless credit cards, to a lost liquor shipment—that she'd tracked down and had delivered post-haste, _thankyouverymuch_—to a death threat, regardless of whether it came from the latest Big Bad or Detective Lance. Or Thea, when he turned down her impassioned plea to borrow his limitless credit card.

So scared of Felicity Smoak? Wasn't even on his radar.

The temptation to teach him a lesson…

Right.

What sort of lesson could she teach him?

"Sure I could take him at bar trivia and if maybe if I had dram or two of good single malt in me might be able to give him a run for his money at Texas Hold 'Em—or gin rummy—but anything that could leave a lasting impression on Oliver-the-Hood-Vigilante-Jolly-Green-Giant Jackass Queen and teach him that Felicity Smoak, while reasonably mild-mannered, was not a woman to be trifled with?"

She paused to blow a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail from her face with an impatient breath.

"Yeah… not seeing it either. He's Oliver Queen and I'm just Felicity Smoak. Mild-mannered, computer geek, blends-into-the-wallpaper Felicity Smoak."

With a sigh, she dropped into her chair, staring critically at the restored arrangement before making a few minute adjustments. Another sigh, this one of relief, escaped as she pressed a button and the system instantly sprang to life with a comforting hum.

"That's right baby, Mama's fixed you right up. Now—" She pushed her glasses further up her nose and cracked her knuckles. "Let's see what the bad man did to you, hm?"

For several minutes she put the system through its paces, making certain it was responding precisely as she'd set it to. Satisfied, yet still irritated over the whole mess and knowing she needed to get out lest she start throwing things at Oliver if he happened to appear—and given her aim, she'd likely break something that wasn't his head—she started to shut down, then on impulse, decided to check one last thing.

"Silly, really," she muttered, as she opened an internet browser. "Oliver doesn't get on the internet, like ever. That's what he has _me_ for. But who knows what the hell he was up to and God forbid he should leave a trail of electronic breadcrumbs that leads right back to the Arrow-cave-lair and then we'd all be screwed and if I have to completely wipe the system and rebuild it from scratch because he was looking at internet porn and God, what am I saying, Oliver Queen doesn't have to resort to the internet for porn—the man _is_ porn and oh my God, I did not just say that and… and…"

Her voice drifted off as she pulled up the browser's history and quickly scanned the most recent addresses visited.

"Oh, Oliver… _really_?"

And in the next instant, a light bulb went off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**AN: **My apologies for how long it took to get this chapter up. I discovered I had rather a difficult time getting Oliver's voice until I hit upon Exasperated Oliver. Hopefully, he's recognizable.

* * *

"Ollie—"

Oliver didn't bother looking up from his study of the printed out pages from the journal. Felicity's idea so he could more discreetly take his "work"—air quotes emphasis hers—home without fear of getting busted. Not that she approved of his taking "work" home, since she was of the firm opinion that he dwelled too much in the darkness the small leather journal and his own demons generated and that home should be free from those distractions, but considering his mother's role in the Undertaking, it was kind of difficult for home to be free of those distractions, even with Moira Queen secured in a maximum security facility, more for her own protection than because she presented any real danger, the point being home wasn't exactly a refuge from "work" not the way Felicity imagined it should be, so what difference did it make whether or not he brought "work"—air quotes emphasis hers—home with him?

Hell.

Mentally rambling in Felicity-ese could not possibly be a sign of anything good. At least, not for him.

Maybe she had a point about not bringing "work" home with him.

"Ollie!"

He rubbed his throbbing temples, wishing he could make a tea from his trusty medicinal herbs, but those were safely stashed at "work." Away from nosy little sisters who chose to disregard the significance of a closed door with amazing regularity. He half-suspected Roy may have even taught her how to pick a lock—for her own safety, no doubt, but it did add yet another potential danger to his carefully constructed house of cards. No wonder Felicity had insisted on scanning the sheets of the journal and embedding them within a format that more closely resembled a business communiqué—Queen Consolidated letterhead and all.

Not for the first time was he grateful Felicity Smoak harbored no ambitions of becoming a criminal mastermind. That he knew of.

"Not now, Thea."

His sister huffed an impatient, "Yes, _now_."

"What is it?"

"There's another."

"Another what?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes in patented Thea fashion. "Another delivery. For you. That _you_ have to sign for."

"Crap."

"Eloquent as ever."

"Bite me," he snapped, then winced as a particularly sharp pain shot through his skull as if in reprimand.

It wasn't Thea's fault he had a headache. Their thwarting of the Undertaking, incomplete though it had been, coupled with his mother's confession meant many of the players on the list had been neutralized. That did not, however, mean the threat to Starling City was over. One thing the island had unequivocally cured him of was blind naïveté. The likelihood someone new and equally—if not more so—monstrous than Malcolm Merlyn would step up to fill the void his death had left was not only probable, to Oliver, it was a certainty. The only questions he had were would it be a completely new player from outside the ranks, or would it be someone who'd been toiling in the shadows of another master already known to Oliver through the journal? Moreover, when would it happen? When would the first move be made? Had it already occurred, amidst the chaos and devastation of the Undertaking's aftermath?

There was just no way to know.

But he could be prepared.

Hence, his renewed dedication to working out—to honing body and skills into even deadlier, more effective weapons—and to his work. No air quotes, no added emphasis. Just the knowledge that the work he did as the Hood was more real to him than anything he did as Oliver Queen, current CEO of Queen Consolidated. Especially since in the wake of Moira's arrest he'd extended an appeal to Walter to return and head up the day-to-day operations—an invitation his former stepfather had accepted only after Oliver had appealed to the other man's deeply protective streak with respect to Thea. The idea that Oliver had Thea's best interests at heart—that he wanted nothing more than to protect her future—had tipped the scales and Walter had returned.

Dirty pool, but Oliver wasn't above playing dirty where best interests—his sister's or the city's—were involved.

The unlikely partnership worked well. Despite his marriage to Moira, Walter's character and reputation remained sterling with even his harshest critics backing off when faced with the irrefutable facts of his six months of captivity, while Oliver's former—and present—playboy reputation, coupled with the circumstances surrounding the sinking of the Queen's Gambit and his subsequent five years on the island left little room for anyone to assume he'd had any knowledge of his mother's activities. So with Walter firmly re-ensconced as COO, that left Oliver to simply serve as the public face of the company—a state of affairs that suited him just fine.

Queen Consolidated was stable and in the process of repairing the damage which Moira and Malcolm had inflicted, which left him free to see to the business of protecting the city—and apparently signing for a never ending stream of packages that had been arriving on a daily basis for the past two weeks.

He released a long sigh as he pushed himself away from his father's desk. His desk now, he supposed, although he'd never think of it as such. "I'm sorry, Speedy."

"No worries." She smiled as he reached the doorway and fell into step beside him. "It's not like I'm unaccustomed to you being a massive jerk."

"Hey!"

"Ooh! Hit a sore spot big guy?" She laughed and easily eluded his mock lunge, then settled back beside him, tucking her hand into his arm. "What would your adoring public say if they knew about the gooey center hardened badass playboy Ollie Queen is in possession of?"

Oliver shook his head, but at the same time, felt an unmistakable sense of relief. This was the lightest Thea had been in months—since their mother's confession and the destruction of the Glades and well… everything. He wasn't sure exactly what had brought about this shift in her emotional state—he knew Roy had been doing what he could, but he was equally preoccupied with trying to help out however he could in the Glades—but whatever it was, Oliver was grateful for it. Thea had had way too much of her childhood stolen from her.

"Honestly, though, I can't wait to see what today's delivery is. I'm not sure how it could possibly top the case of AXE body spray. I mean," she went on cheerfully, "first off, AXE body spray? Ew." She wrinkled her nose and shuddered lightly. "But the real offense is choosing 'Anarchy' as your scent. It's like whoever's doing this doesn't even know you."

If _she_ only knew. It was more like did know him. At least somewhat. Which was what had him worried. It was innocent so far, but what if that was merely to lull him into a false sense of security before lowering the boom? What could the boom possibly be and what quarter would it come from? Thea was right about one thing, though—he really was amassing the most curious collection and it was making him crazy as hell he couldn't figure out why or how. His natural paranoia had him checking every package before opening them. Not to mention, opening them in an old abandoned workshop where, if there was anything dangerous in the deliveries, they'd be likely to do the least amount of damage.

At the door, he signed for the latest delivery, grateful the size of this box was at least manageable, unlike the stack of crates containing the supplies to construct an elaborate—and authentic—outdoor pizza oven. Or the unwieldy boxes containing roll upon roll of wallpaper, each pattern more hideous than the last. Then there was the full set of what seemed like every film and television series released on DVD in the past five years, according to Thea, followed by the discs containing every issue of Entertainment Weekly for the same time period.

At least Thea had been pleased with the shipment of French macarons that he'd been more than happy to hand over to her—_after_ he'd called the bakery and enquired as to the pastries' provenance. After enduring a string of extremely colorful and descriptive French epithets from world-renowned and award-winning pastry chef Jean-Pierre along with curses being heaped upon him, his children, his children's children and _their_ children's children for daring to impugn Jean-Pierre's reputation and abilities and perhaps his manhood—Oliver had gotten a little lost in translation at that point—he'd been assured as to their safety and quality and Thea had proceeded to gorge herself into a sugar coma.

And he was mentally rambling in Felicity-ese again.

Dammit.

"Come _on_, Ollie."

He studied the relatively small box he held. "Come on, Ollie, what?"

Thea huffed out an impatient breath. "Come on, Ollie, open it."

"No."

She crossed her arms and hit him with the "You're being ridiculous" stare. "You're being ridiculous," she said, adding the "You're seriously bordering on stupid," stare to the mix.

"I'm being cautious."

"You're being an old man."

"Thea, our family name is not exactly high up on anyone's list of favorites right now and where we live isn't any great secret. If I slip up—if I'm careless for even a second and anything happens to you as a result—"

His voice lowered with each word finally drifting off with what he was absolutely unable to say. Unable to articulate had badly he'd failed.

Thea gazed up at him, the precocious wisdom that seemed to overtake her more and more often clearly reflected in her expression. Tacitly understanding, even if she couldn't fully grasp the magnitude.

How could she?

Only two people in this world knew who he was. What he was. And what he'd done.

He'd die before he let Thea into that part of his existence. He knew she was far from innocent, but some things he wanted to keep as… normal for her as possible.

"You miss Tommy, don't you?" she observed quietly. "A lot."

Yes he did. And Laurel, too. But Thea didn't know a thing about that and thank God. She simply thought Laurel, upon her release from Starling General six months earlier, had opted to retreat to her aunt's remote home in the San Juan Islands. A place to heal. A place to hide. And with CNRI shuttered for the foreseeable future, it had been easy to claim she had nothing to return for.

Not that she'd actually spoken to him about it—or anything else, really. Not a word since Tommy's funeral.

"It's not your fault, you know," she said. "It's not your fault Tommy's dad turned out to be a whacked out psycho who ultimately cost Tommy his life. And it's _definitely_ not your fault Tommy went to rescue Laurel when she was too stupid to leave the office."

Startled, Oliver glanced up from his dogged study of the box. "How did you know that?"

Once again, she leveled the "You're seriously bordering on stupid," stare at him. "I'd have had to have been living under a rock to _not_ know, Ollie."

"She wasn't being stupid," he said softly, although even to his ears, he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Yes, she was." Thea, on the other hand, sounded utterly convinced and implacable. "She risked her life and cost Tommy his for what? Some stupid files?"

"She thought she was helping."

"God, Ollie—when are you gonna stop making excuses for her? She has so always been your Kryptonite." With another sigh, this one underscored with a definite layer of concern, she patted his arm. "Look, I gotta jet. Let me know what's in this box, 'kay? Dibs if it's chocolate."

He stared after her as she disappeared up the stairs, marveling at the changes the past fifteen months had wrought in his flighty, headstrong little sister.

Suddenly, he wished he could tell her about who he was, even though he knew he never would. If she was mad at Laurel for staying behind to rescue some stupid files—and yes, he could acknowledge now she'd been exceedingly reckless and stupid—he could only imagine how furious his sister would be if she ever discovered his identity as Starling City's resident vigilante.

Shaking off the maudlin mood that had overtaken him, because nothing but madness lay down the paths of "What if?" with their attendant doubts and recriminations, he made his way toward the workshop where he'd taken to inspecting and opening the package. After making certain the door was locked—and alarm set—against any "accidental" invasions by nosy little sisters, he carefully began the process of unwrapping his latest "gift."

Later, he'd be profoundly grateful for his caution and paranoia. Later.

Much, much later.

Right now, he was too busy being appalled at the creation he held in his hand—one of dozens, maybe hundreds, lovingly nestled amidst layers of tissue, packed with what had been obvious care and pride in the workmanship.

And all of a sudden, he experienced the horrible, dawning sensation of knowing _exactly_ who was behind the special deliveries.

Oh, now it was _on_.


	3. It's Always the Little Things

**It's Always the Little Things**

**AN: **Sorry for the delay in posting an update. This is what happens when working on multiple projects. At any rate, I'd expected this to be the beginning of the next chapter, but it worked so well as a stand-alone interlude, I decided to leave it as such.

Patience, though, Dear Readers. I promise to start actually answering some questions with the next chapter. In the meantime, this little interlude and my deepest heartfelt thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. They're enormously appreciated!

* * *

It had started innocuously enough—a single flower in a bud vase waiting on her desk upon her arrival at Queen Consolidated first thing in the morning. In retrospect, that really should have been her first sign that he was on to her. Not so much the gift of the flower itself, although that was okay, yeah, _bizarre_, because she'd never imagined herself the type to be given flowers nor was she currently involved with anyone—at all—let alone anyone who'd feel compelled to give her a flower, not to mention, she'd never imagined him to be the flower-giving type—not that she'd ever imagined him in scenarios like that because seriously, who had the time with everything else that had to take precedence, besides, him? Give flowers? To her? _Hello_? So not the type to be given flowers, especially by guys like him.

So maybe the flower showing up should have been a clue, but was she hit—repeatedly—with the clue-by-four? Nope.

But if not the fact of the flower appearing on her desk, one would think at least the _choice_ of flower—imperious and so very out-of-the-ordinary as it quietly preened in its frosted and etched crystal bud vase—would have clued her in. No simple rose or tulip; nothing as showy as a bird of paradise or a spray of orchids and most definitely nothing as plebian as a carnation or a daisy—_noooo_…

A calla lily. And okay, no, calla lilies weren't exactly unique or exotic, but this one… Whoa, _Nellie_. Graceful, elegant, its hue a deep, rich purplish-black that was almost as menacing as it was stunningly beautiful.

Yep. _Definitely_ should've been A Sign. In the same manner the anvil dropping straight onto the coyote's head was A Sign, that damned cocky road runner hidden nearby, observing with his head tilted in that annoying, know-it-all, we've-only-just-gotten-started, fashion. And the minute she saw that damned flower, she should've realized the jig was up, claimed something gross and highly communicable, and gone home sick for the day. While planning to move to Bora Bora. Or Newark. Somewhere she could never be found.

But did she? _Noooo_… she did not.

Because she, Felicity Smoak, certifiable genius was—like that damned coyote—rendered completely stupid by the unexpected that really should have been expected. Except she never, ever, _ever_ would have expected his first volley in what was now clearly a battle to appear in the guise of a simple, unique, and devastatingly beautiful flower on her desk.

And thus, began the Day to End All Days.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**AN: **And see... I didn't even make you wait that long for the next update. Am I forgiven for the wee interlude?

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"Ms. Smoak."

Felicity froze, barely breathing, and prayed, even though she totally was not the praying type, that the currently disembodied voice belonging to her supervisor would dissipate and vanish into the ether. Not permanently, of course, because she actually kind of liked her supervisor—as supervisors went, he was pretty nice even if he didn't have a quarter of the knowledge and skills she did, but she supposed that's why he was a supervisor, more of a management type, reasonably fluent in both Geek and Suit which allowed him to bridge the otherwise impossible gap between the grunts in IT and the three-martini lunch—except did anyone really take three-martini lunches anymore?—types who resided in their magical, cloud-shrouded suites on the soaring upper floors of Queen Consolidated with relative ease.

"Ms. Smoak, I know you're in here. _Everyone_ knows you're in here."

Damn. Hadn't dissipated. Or, you know, left.

"Um… sir," she ventured tentatively, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield, "should you really be in here?"

"It wouldn't be my first choice, no." His voice was dry. "But since you've doggedly ignored everyone I've sent in after you, you pretty much left me with no other option."

"Oh."

"Yes."

After a moment's silence, during which Felicity did more of that praying thing, this time for a hole to open up beneath her and allow her to dissipate into the ether, and in this case, yeah, she really did want to disappear because the only reason her supervisor could possibly be so intent on making her leave her safe space was—

"Ms. Smoak."

Beneath the obvious annoyance Felicity could detect a thread of humor. Weirdly reassuring because if there was anything she was accustomed to, it was being the source of amusement for the masses.

Just generally not for the current reasons.

"There's another, isn't there?"

"If by 'another' you mean 'several' then yes, there's another."

"Oh, God," she groaned. "I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be." Now the amusement was far more evident. "While I'm generally not a fan of constant interruptions in the workspace, the fact that it's you and you're not normally the source of any sort of interruption, let alone this sort, makes it a bit more endurable. Besides, it's a summer Friday and things were entirely too quiet around here."

Okay, he was so laughing at her, even if he wasn't actually laughing. Kind of reminded her of John that way and if he'd had any hand in this, she was _so_ going to make him pay. She could probably hack into his car's computer systems and make them read Cyrillic or something. Although with her luck, he was probably fluent.

"Felicity?"

Oh, frell—and yes, she was using frell because she was reasonably certain there were regulations against using the sort of profanity she'd be using otherwise in the workspace and really, she didn't need anything else with which to get herself in trouble, so oh, frell—he'd progressed to addressing her by her given name.

"Yes, sir?"

"You aren't seriously going to make me call maintenance to come extract you, are you?"

She sighed. "No sir."

With a final glance at her tablet to make sure any potentially incriminating screens or bits of information were safely hidden from sight, should it spring to life at a highly inopportune moment which, of course it would because that would just be her luck wouldn't it, she slowly turned the latch and eased the door open, revealing the really-far-more-lavish-than-it-needed-to-be environs of the IT department's Ladies Room.

Unable to directly meet her supervisor's gaze, she opted instead for the safer option of glancing in the large mirrored expanse mounted above the sinks.

Yep.

_Totally_ laughing at her, even if all his facial expression revealed was a curious half-smile. Another glance in the mirror revealed her face, well past "adorable rosy blush" and well on its way to "OGODKILLME NOW" flaming embarrassment. Which clashed horribly with her mint green cardigan and lavender blouse. Then again, nothing would work with this particularly vibrant shade of red other than maybe a black shroud. Worn deep in a tomb where Indiana Jones would have trouble finding her.

Ducking her head, she took a step before his quiet throat clearing made her pause and look directly at him for the first time. And felt her face flame anew with his grave nod at the "All employees must wash their hands before returning to work," sign.

Thankfully, all he did after that was smile and exit the restroom, leaving her to run water in the sink and seriously consider drowning herself.

"All right, Smoak, no use putting it off any longer," she muttered as she dried her hands on an environmentally friendly yet exceptionally plush and soothing paper towel and tossed it into the recycling bin. Straightening her glasses and smoothing a stray hair back into her ponytail, she picked up her tablet, again using it as a shield, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the restroom's heavy door. One of her coworkers, clearly sent to lie in wait for her eventual emergence, pointed in the direction of the conference room.

"We've been telling the delivery guys to take the stuff in there. More room."

"Delivery guys?" she repeated weakly. "More… room?"

Her coworker nodded. "More room."

"Uh… thanks," Felicity muttered as she headed toward the conference room.

First, it had been the single calla lily. Then midmorning, an entire arrangement of calla lilies in a rainbow of shades, interspersed with vibrant greenery had appeared. Then that had been it—for a while—leading her to idly wonder if maybe she didn't have a secret admirer and who could it possibly be, because really, she wasn't the secret admirer type, at least, not since sixth grade and Henry Simonoff, who'd been the only other kid in their class who wore glasses and that had given them something over which to bond, along with their shared taste in Tolkien. For two glorious weeks there had been a steady stream of gummy bears and M&Ms and best of all, a blank journal with a package of four awesome pens in bright gel inks, pink and purple and green and orange because as much as she loved her computers, she had a secret fondness for writing by hand.

That's when she'd known it was Henry who was leaving her the gifts—but just as she was screwing up her courage to ask him to go to the movies with her, red-haired, freckle-faced, ridiculously cute Becky Adams showed up wearing glasses that were a lot more adorable than Felicity's simple round frames and just like that, Henry's allegiances had changed.

No more secret admirer. For sure, no movie date.

Felicity had tried red hair for a while—in high school—before settling on blonde as a shade that suited her much better.

She'd spent the morning multitasking between working and wondering who her secret admirer might be—then at lunch, it had begun in earnest. And she knew… she just _knew_—this wasn't a secret admirer.

A secret tormenter.

A veritable Torquemada of really wonderful gift giving, delivered in such a way as to raise suspicion and questions and make her really, really uncomfortable in front of her day-to-day bosses and coworkers because this was happening at work. In front of people who knew her. At least, they knew Felicity Smoak, mild-mannered IT tech and all-around nerd. And did he have any idea how dangerous this was? What if she slipped up? What if she _said_ something? Although what could she say?

"Oh yeah, I happened across the internet search history for my boss who's only sort of kind of my boss in name during the day, but at night is more like a partner in crime as I assist him with vigilante duties that skirt a lot of moral and legal gray areas and oh, who am I kidding, we skid right over into black areas when it comes to the legal and I would so totally be busted as an accomplice because I've done more than a few questionable things and I don't think having a bomb strapped to my neck or helping Detective Lance with defusing a bomb/earthquake device is really going to count for much, is it? Probably not. Anyhow, I happened across his search history that he foolishly left on _my_ computer and I don't care if he paid for them and I decided to have a little fun at his expense, except he figured it out and now he's clearly getting back at me."

Uh-huh. She _could_ say something like that.

Right before she was carted off to the loony bin.

A little light-headed, she carefully pushed open the door to the conference room. She'd honestly thought the gourmet sushi lunch had been the end of it. Then there had been the Nutella crêpes—made deskside by the chef at her favorite little Old Town _patisserie_. Enough for the entire department.

_Then_ he started playing dirty.

A half dozen perfect ruby-red strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

And speaking of dark chocolate, the collection of Theo Fair Trade chocolate bars—delicious _and_ ethical, the bastard.

A foot massager to put beneath her desk.

A high tech coffee/espresso machine—for the IT employee's break room—and a case of beans—all also Fair Trade.

Followed by the Nespresso machine for her office.

A very nice bottle of a Paso Robles Cab she'd mentioned liking in passing.

It wasn't even the gifts themselves, although of course the crêpes and coffeemaker hadn't gone unnoticed, because _d'uh_—but the steady parade of items making their way into her office that had everyone talking. And looking. And talking. And _staring_.

Yes, she dressed in individual fashion and was very secure in who she was, but all things considered, she was a quiet person. A private person. The sort of person who, bright lipstick and cartilage studs notwithstanding, tended to blend into the wallpaper and she _liked _ it like that. She liked gliding just beneath the radar.

And he knew it, the bastard.

It was when the pair of whimsical earrings had arrived—the delicate gold hoops with exquisitely carved dove charms dangling from them, their brilliant blue eyes gazing up at her with an altogether too-familiar glint in them—that she'd run off to the bathroom with her tablet and frantically started canceling every order she'd placed that had yet to be delivered.

Felicity was a lot of things, but stupid? Not one of them. She knew when she was beat.

Just past the threshold, she paused. Looked back over her shoulder to make certain her co-worker was seeing the same thing she was seeing and that it wasn't actually a mirage conjured by her fertile and panicked imagination. Judging by the wide-eyed expression, nope.

Not a mirage.

"Felicity Smoak?"

Felicity stood frozen in the doorway, clutching her tablet with one hand and the heavy brass door handle with the other. "Um… yes?"

"You're late." The terrifyingly hip woman with her severely blue-black hair, model-thin body, and skin that Felicity _swore_ didn't have a single pore, looked her up and down with a more-than-slightly critical eye.

"Luckily, we have good basic material to work with."

"Ex- excuse me?"

"You have a good sense of color—" Terrifyingly Hip Lady sniffed. "For someone who's obviously not a natural blonde."

Felicity straightened. "Hey!"

A perfectly groomed black eyebrow rose. "Am I wrong?"

As Felicity remained stubbornly silent a ghost of a smile joined the eyebrow. "Didn't think so." Closing the distance between them, she firmly shut the conference room door, closing out not only Felicity's very interested coworker, but the entirety of the very curious department who gathered, trying to get a glimpse into what—to Felicity's eye—appeared to be a high-end couture boutique/salon/spa.

"First, we'll pick a gown, then work from there. And then, the massage."

Felicity stood there, feeling like the dumbest creature ever put on the earth.

"Gown?" she finally managed to croak. "Why?"

Hip Lady lifted a narrow, elegant shoulder. "I don't ask unnecessary questions. It's why I'm good at my job."

A sharp, authoritative knock from behind Felicity made her jump away from the door just before it swung open to reveal the man himself. Impeccably turned out in an expertly tailored business suit, he... loomed, every bit the authoritative CEO surveying his domain, critical blue gaze skimming over the transformed conference room as if he had no idea what the hell was going on.

"I'd heard there was some sort of…commotion on the IT floor," he said mildly. "Is this your doing, Ms. Smoak?"

"No," she snapped, tempted to smack him straight upside his perfectly coiffed yet slightly scruffy head. As he continued staring at her, stone-faced, she felt her heart rate falter—what if it wasn't him? Then the very outer corners of his eyes creased and the edges of his mouth turned up, so quickly, she almost couldn't be certain it had happened, except… she knew him. Knew him almost better than anyone. So she _knew_ it had happened. And felt the urge to smack him straight upside his perfectly coiffed yet slightly scruffy head wash over her again.

"It appears to be someone's idea of a prank," she said, delivering each word with as much acid as she could muster.

His eyebrows rose as he surveyed the rainbow array of gowns, the table of sky high designer shoes, the well-lit hair and makeup station, the smaller table with black velvet jeweler's boxes and an anxious looking man hovering nervously over them despite the burly security guard hovering over _him_, and the massage table with a toned and very-Nordic looking guy standing alongside. It was the latter that seemed to give him pause—his eyes narrowing in a way that had Felicity envisioning dark green leather and arrows.

Tough.

This was all his fault.

Even if it was all her fault.

It was still his fault.

He could've just left a whoopee cushion in her chair in the lair.

He took a deep breath and the Hood fell away to reveal Oliver Queen. "Wish the pranks I was on the receiving end of were this nice."

He smiled at Hip Lady who visibly softened and turned almost girlish, and said, "Well, your supervisor assured me it's really not much of a disruption—" He shoved one hand in his slacks' pocket, the very picture of easygoing, privileged elegance. The benign ruler of them all. "Apparently Nutella crêpes have a way of bringing the best out in everyone—whoever this prankster is, he certainly knows how to turn the odds in his favor."

"You could say that," Felicity muttered, just _itching_ to smack him. Hard. Even though with her luck she'd probably wind up with a broken hand for her efforts.

He cocked his head slightly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, Probably did, the big muscle-bound jerk. "At any rate, you appear to have quite a lot... going on, so I won't keep you."

Turning to Felicity his expression never changed—not outwardly—but she hadn't worked for him, _really_ worked for him, for nearly a year without learning how to read every subtle nuance of body language, every flicker of expression.

So well did she recognize the depths of that smile—the glint in his eyes that mirrored the glint of the eyes in the carved doves—and knew enough to be nervous as he met her gaze and softly said, "And Ms. Smoak, I do so hope you enjoy what_ever_ your evening brings."


	5. Silver

**Silver**

**AN: **Another one of these little interludes—again, originally intended to be the introduction into the next chapter, but… yeah—I kind of love it on its own. Patience grasshoppers—next full chapter on its way.

* * *

He'd never seen her in silver.

He had seen her in every color of the rainbow—either in her clothes or her makeup. Vibrant and bright, or pastel hues often combined in whimsical ways or with quirky prints in a manner that lit the dank gloominess of the Foundry.

He'd wondered if she did it on purpose, trying to bring a hint of light into their darkness, but then again—she'd been whimsical and quirky and bright since the moment he first laid eyes on her.

There had been gold. Impossibly short and daring and completely unexpected. It should have been an appropriate color for her—the color of sunshine—but that shade of gold hadn't been quite right. More bronzed and antiqued—almost dull, as if she was trying to fit into the old-moneyed look of the rest of the crowd. But had he mentioned impossibly short? With a slit up the skirt that revealed even more? Even before the bomb collar had been fastened around her neck she'd stood out.

There had been a particularly memorable shade of red. A deep, ruby red, clinging from shoulders to toes, rendering her a sexy, confident femme fatale of the sort he might once have gravitated toward—cliché as it sounded—like a moth to a flame.

He'd really hated that goddamned red dress.

He'd kind of hated the gold dress, too.

That one was too... Laurel. Too much like his past. Representing, with its color of molten golden sun, the daytime, the world Laurel occupied and the hours through which she moved so seamlessly. Those hours with which he no longer had very much in common.

When it came down to it, he hated what those dresses represented, in terms of how she'd been put in danger, but even more, he hated how they obliterated _who_ she was.

Silver, however… that was the color of the moon. That beacon of night— signs of the hours they shared, the time spent on battles won and lost.

Whether faint and hesitant or full and glowing, illuminating the darkest corners, it always, _always_, led him home.

The moon, she never failed him.

Long and shimmering, the folds of the gown moved with her—neither clinging to every curve in the way of the red, nor leaving large swathes of skin exposed as the gold had. No… this dress draped and fell in sinuous folds over her body, clinging one moment, teasing with the promise of revelation the next, one leg emerging as she hesitantly took a step forward, the full moon overhead cutting through the deep black of night.

He would _never_ trade her bright colors, her whimsical pastels and her quirky prints. At their most fundamental, they were who she was, as much as the glasses and the babbling and the computer genius.

But… silver.

How very appropriate.

And perfect.


End file.
